Until the faucet quits.
My house is old. It’s very old. Built in 1925, it’s one of the oldest in my neighborhood by 15-20 years. Mostly I like it. Mostly.
At least part of the time. I dream of selling it and moving to a nicer, better neighborhood. I long to get outta da ‘hood. But for now, we’re here. There is talk (again) of selling and moving…but mostly we just sit and talk about it. Our conversations about moving generally go like this:
Me: Hey, do you know if we sold our house, and used the profit as a down payment, we could conceivably have a lower mortgage than we do now?
Me: Wouldn’t that be great! We’d owe less money, have a better/nicer house and save money! I know how much you love to save!
But really I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came to talk about old houses. I have thought I wanted one. I’ve dreamed of having one. I’ve talked about having an old historical home. Now I’m not sure.
Because yes, I’m fickle like that.
I want a new house that looks old. And is cheap. Very very cheap. Like Free. Because I don’t believe in asking for too much. Really.
Our house has an old claw foot bath tub. Yes, you can all ooh and aw www over it. get it out of your system. Are you good?
Great! Because I’m moving on.
The clawfoot tub is not a new one that looks old, it’s an old one that looks and acts old. Every now and again it gets the crazy idea to drip. And drip. And drip. Normally when I hear it which really isn’t that often, just two or three times a day, I just reach in and turn the taps off all the way. No more drip.
Mr. Full Cup has had enough of it though. Convinced the faucet is bad, yesterday he turned the water in the house off, tore the whole thing apart, went to Menards and bought a new faucet. To give him credit, he did ask if any of us females needed to use the room before he turned of the water.
Can I just say it is now almost 24 hours later and the water is still turned off?
Whenever Mr. FullCup decides he’s going to tackle something like that and rip it apart, I get scared. Not just a little scared. Scared enough to contemplate moving to Siberia and changing my name to Olga Hoslenpifflefeffer. because we’re not talking just a little scared here, we’re talking goose-pimply-I’ve-just-watched-the-scariest-movie-in-my-life-and-I’m-afraid-to-go-to-bed scared. I’m scared out of my ever-livin’ mind! Because he is so not handy.
I’m not being mean at all. It does not go well.
So this morning, he was banging around in the bathroom again, and it looked like it was all coming together. I chortled gleefully from the safe warm confines of my bed. And then I heard him on the phone. And then we went back to Menards. And then he came home. And then….
he called a plumber. He waved the white flag of surrender and called, admitting to them that he thought it would be an easy fix. You have to know they were laughing hysterically on the other end, at least in their head. They probably chortle with glee when men call and say that, and probably charge them double or at least triple.
It is my big laundry day. Becuase you know it just wouldn’t be right for this to happen on a Tuesday, or Wednesday or any day that doesn’t end in “y”.
In case I forget, remind me to tell you about the best burritos we ever had. And they were homemade. No, this has nothing to do with the plumbing..unless you realize there are beans in the burritos.
How is your Monday shaping up?